Anyone for Pizza?
by Tankasaurus
Summary: A collection of unofficial FNAF-related stories! Discover why the Marionette is soothed by the music box, learn how Withered Bonnie became a faceless husk, and what does Chica see in that bloody Cupcake? All this and more, at everybody's favorite pizzeria! Disclaimer: I am no theorist, as this is purely meant to be a character study. Subject to change.
1. Hush, Little Baby (Marionette's Story)

**Hush, Little Baby:**

An eerie silence had fallen over the plush-ridden prize counter. If the doll strained her senses, she could hear the rhythmic ticking of the clock, even from within her pretty lil prison. Curled up inside her box, with her elongated fingers prying at the edges of her porcelain mask. Her head throbbed in agony, a piercing pain in her temple that cut through any coherent thought like a knife.

A knife? The image of a ruby-red blade twinkling in the light darted across her mind, like a striking cobra. She gripped her mask tighter, attempting to dig her fingers into her hollow eye sockets. She wanted to scream, but had no lungs or tongue to do so. Not even so much as a voicebox for her to distort. She simply had no way to cry out when these bouts of terror struck her.

She lay still for a moment, trying to slow her raging spirit. She could only hope that the fool would continue to neglect that wretched music box. Once she was sufficiently soothed by the quiet, she began to reassemble her thoughts. Starting with the simplest:

 _My name is Robin Fischer_.

She repeated the name, letting it soak into her mind, and roll around her skull. It was like a mantra. _I am Robin._ Like the bird; a bird in a cage, perhaps. She tried to sit up, but immediately hit the ceiling of her cracker-jack-box. The impact reverberated through her whole body and she slumped back to the floor of her steel coffin. She never thought it was particularly kid-friendly of them to have her home constructed from such crude materials. Then again, she was little more than plywood and plastic – not as if she needed anything fancy.

A terrifying giggle echoed down the hall, a sound so striking to her that it was unmistakable. She thought briefly, that she would be safer inside her box. Safer. How preposterous. What could be done to her that hadn't already been done?

 _My name is Robin Fischer. I was murdered when I was ten years old, in 1980_.

In the dark confines of her box, she seethed in silent fury. If she had teeth, they would be grinding. Hard to believe it had been almost a decade since he'd done what he did. Her joints remained stiff from the long winter months wherein she'd been locked away. For seven years, she'd been nothing more than his private trophy, a precious token from his first kill.

 _My name is Robin Fischer. I was murdered when I was ten years old, in 1980. I was not his last._

With this knowledge, eating away at her, it was impossible for her to rest. And she knew, she wasn't the only one. There were many, from all walks of life that had crossed paths with her vicious killer. She could sense their pain, mirroring her own. They were here, with her. She had no clue why; what kind of monster would inflict this fate upon a gaggle of children?

She had tried to reach out to them more than once. She'd acted even more rash in the past, and she'd come to regret her actions to some degree; she was not God. It was not her place to intervene with an innocent spirit's afterlife. And yet she had. At the time, it seemed to make so much sense. She had woven her soul into the boy's beloved doll, watching over him. His suffering had been like a beacon to her, as she gravitated towards this poor child. She had watched his brief life unfold, unable to act, afraid of alienating the boy.

And when he'd died... No, when he'd been _killed_ ; by his own flesh and blood, no less! The mere memory of what they had done infuriated her, filling her with a wrath that she didn't think was possible. She had cherished this boy, as if he were her own. The way he'd clung to her golden fur, staining her purple bow tie with his salty tears had stirred up a strange feeling within her. Hope. A chance to help guide this sensitive child, and protect him. Maybe, even use her abilities for good. Then to see his world shattered, just as hers had been? Well. She refused to let that happen.

He'd lain on his hospital bed, his life fading. His mind surprisingly at ease, for someone who'd had his head crushed in a sick ploy from his vile brother. She had broken through the veil, so much easier now that the lines between life and death had blurred. She reached out to him for the last time, manifesting yet again as his best friend, his little Fredbear plush.

He appeared translucent, flickering in and out. His expression was gaunt, his eyes puffy, twinkling with unshed tears. He may have been comatose, but it was evident that even now, he could not find peace. She could sense the same frustration, the same mix of anger and fear that had plagued her for years. The boy fell to his knees, like a puppet with the strings cut. He'd been fighting his fate for so long, just as she had. She could see the streaks of tears emerge from beneath his shaggy brown hair.

In this strange state of purgatory, she discovered that she could alter things. She didn't know how, but for the first time since her death, she was able to speak;

"You're broken," she said, her voice no longer the goofy dialect of his Fredbear, but instead, her own, undistorted. It was like hearing the voice of a distant friend. Familiar, but almost forgotten.

The boy sniffed, and she could feel the walls that had been holding back his sea of tears begin to crack. The toxic tide of bitterness was heartbreaking. And sadly, so familiar. It was in this moment, she could sense that the others were tuning in. Muffled voices, undoubtedly from the mortal realm spoke to the boy.

"We are still your friends." It declared.

"Do you still believe that?" Said another voice.

"I'm still here." Came the last one, and even though his had been the faintest, both the boy and his plush recognized it. The boy's brother.

Even when he was so far from him, unable to be harmed by the bullies anymore, she could tell that the sound of his brother's voice had struck such fear into him. His eyes widened and his body stiffened, as he let out a soft whimper, his tears flowing anew. She offered her hand to the boy, as he lifted his head curiously, meeting the plush's gaze. He noticed an unnatural glimmer in its' eyes. Then it dawned on him – his friend, Fredbear could talk? And with such a soft, feminine voice, too. But of course, Fredbear had been there the whole time, watching over him, warning him about the antics of his brother. His brother; the one that had done this to him. The one that had broken him.

The plush smiled, a warm, comforting smile. Her eyes sparkled, fixed on him. It reminded him of his mother... And he realized, he felt safe right here, with her. More than he had in a long time. Her fuzz melted away, revealing the scrawny frame of a young girl wearing a flowery dress, with a frilly skirt. Her skin revealed itself to be pale, with a smattering of freckles across her button nose. She had tussled auburn hair that stuck out at odd angles. She had a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes and high-arced eyebrows. She would've been pretty, if not for the indent in her forehead, and the trail of dry blood down the right side of her face.

She hadn't revealed her true form to anyone, much less to anyone in the mortal realm. But, she had no choice. She focused all of her abilities, channelling all the pain and torment she had felt these past three years. She had been all alone, and trapped, unable to move on, unable to find rest. She could not let this poor boy suffer the way she had; he would not be alone in his afterlife. She couldn't let him wander the world, stuck like she was. Her mind focused, reaching out to his spirit, ready to catch him once he slipped the mortal coil. She parted her delicate lips, and whispered; "I will put you back together."

…

It was selfish. There was no other word for it. She had acted impulsively. She couldn't be certain that his soul wouldn't have eventually found rest. After all, he hadn't died instantly after his grisly head trauma. There was no guarantee that he yearned for justice the way she did. Despite the disgust over what she had done, binding his soul to her, he had not left her side. They did share a common trait; neither of them had been killed at Fazbears. She did wonder if it had become impossible for him to leave. It made her feel guilty, as she knew the pain all too well. Wanting nothing more, but to move on.

Over the years, their spirits had manifested into their respective forms: the boy taking the role as Golden Fredbear, and the girl taking the role as the Marionette. She never understood why he felt most at ease, haunting the shell of the one that had crushed his skull. Although, hers hadn't been any less strange. She often wondered why her soul had been drawn to the creepy little puppet, with its' uncanny features, and insubstantial limbs. She supposed, if there were any benefits to being a ghost, it would be her limited ability to float off the floor. The boy hadn't mastered this; he seemed to have little interest in utilizing his powers. She didn't want to push him. She had already done enough.

Her brooding over her past was interrupted, as the sounds of footsteps down the hall alerted her to the presence of unwanted company. Those same sickening laughs, accompanied with the strain of metal scraping along the linoleum floor. If she had breathe left in her, it would've stuck in her throat. Metal? Images of deadly weapons crafted from cold steel filled her mind with a new wave of terror. Had he come to tear her asunder? Was she about to experience a second death?

Her fists clenched. No. That couldn't be possible. Neither her nor the boy had made their presence known. She couldn't speak for the others – their spirits were fresh, untamed and unwilling to accept what had happened to them. It was possible that one or more of them had lashed out, and perhaps that had unsettled their killer.

 _Their_ killer. _Her_ killer. It hardly mattered. She had been a coward, too afraid and too weak to defend those children. She couldn't even seek them out in the spirit realm, the way she had done with the boy. She couldn't leave his side. Couldn't leave her box. She was powerless in this state, with that wretched song constantly playing. Keeping her sedated, reliving the nightmare, all these years.

It was only when she was permitted these narrow windows of clarity that she was able to scheme. And soon, she might gain enough strength to act. If only, he refrained from winding that box for a little bit longer...

The footsteps were louder now. She could sense his shadow blocking out the dingy light, as he hovered over her box. Rage surged through her tiny body. She imagined him opening the lid. _Come on, do it_! She would leap out, her pointed fingers splayed, ready to dig into his flesh. Like a twisted jack-in-the-box. Even as she imagined what she would do, gouging out his eyes, tearing at his skin in a frenzy, she was assaulted with memories. The ones she would like to forget. The same images that frequently starred in her nightmares.

She didn't care, though. He needed to pay. He _would_ pay; for what he'd done to her. To them. Her body tensed up, ready to spring at him. She could hear his sadistic chuckle. She heard a scuffling sound, and soon he was kneeling so that she could see the stubble on his chin and a pair of thin, chipped lips through a crack in the corner of her box. If her face were capable, she would've snarled maliciously at him. Instead, she remained still. _No_ , she told herself. _Do not give him any reason to suspect. Let him act foolishly. Maybe tonight, you'll have your revenge._

He lowered his head further so that his bright grey eyes peered through. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Good evening, darlin'." He drawled. He giggled, tapping at her box, like she was a fish in an aquarium.

"Did you miss me?" He asked, voice soft and child-like.

 _No_.

"I sure missed you. I miss all the lovely memories we shared." He continued in a dream-like tone. Her expression remained blank, although she wanted nothing more than to vomit. She had endured these memories for years now. She was shaken, but her conviction remained strong. She would make him suffer.

Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, drumming his fingertips atop her box. _Yes_ , she thought. _Open it. Open it, now_!

"I liked the tea parties best," he added, voice dropping in pitch.

 _Tea parties?_

"Maybe," he continued in a chirpy voice "I'll find some new friends to play with!"

Her world seemed frozen in time. She knew exactly what _playtime_ meant to him. She could feel her head gently twitching. He couldn't... Surely... So soon? She felt light-headed, wanting nothing more than to escape from this box and get as far away from her killer as possible. Why? Why was he even here? What could he want? Hadn't he done enough?

She wanted to scream for help, to cry, but like so many years ago, she couldn't. She had no more tears to shed, and no breathe left in her body. All she had was a paralysing fear, fuelled by her helplessness. Much like when he'd snuffed her out, she felt powerless. Panic filled her, as she waited for him to open the lid. _No_ , she reminded herself. _This is not you. Fischer. You're better than this. You're stronger than this. Make him suffer!_

She waited, those few seconds of hesitation felt like an eternity. Then it ended. The familiar notes of the music box started up again, filling her mind with a tsunami of torment. How she'd been abducted in his car. Striped nude, and gagged, chaining her to the floor like a dog. He'd said he had some perfect dresses for her to wear. The humiliating process of having him dress and undress her, like she was a doll. A doll for him to break.

It most certainly could have been worse. She'd seen the knives, strewn about. He kept saying he had a surprise, and most nights he did. She tried to block them out as best she could, although she knew it was an uphill battle. Eventually, the memories would ravage her, taking over her mind once more, slowly breaking her all over again.

As the memories of her death swamped her, the security guard lifted the frail puppet from its' housing. He tossed it aside like the junk that it was – just another of his grandfather's silly heirlooms. He'd never been fond of puppets. The way they moved, it was so strange and jerky. Like they were broken. He hated broken toys. What fun was a toy that was wrecked? He stooped down and hoisted up the shiny metal endoskeleton. He _really_ didn't like this toy. This one had been playing hide and seek with him. But it had kept cheating. He didn't like toys that didn't play nice. So he was putting the yellow bear in time out. Good riddance!

…

She was trapped again. Unable to wake from the recurring nightmare. Her shoulders ached, the cable ties biting into her wrists. There was barely a scrap of fat on her body anymore. Sharp hunger pains crippled her, as she trembled, her chilled skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She was hunched over, endless tears streaking down her cheeks. Her muffled cries being the only sound she was capable of uttering. _I want to go home_! She recited this wish over and over again, hoping to convince herself that it would eventually come true.

Surely, someone would notice she was missing? Someone must've seen the car, caught a peek at the licence plate? At least, her family had to be looking for her, right? They had to be. They must've found some clue by now. Right?

Despite the limited light, she was able to make out certain features of the room she was being held in – a cold concrete floor, thin slits from rusty shutters. There was a workbench just out of reach, littered with an array of tools. On the wall opposite to her was an assortment of hooks, with scraps of fabric hanging from them.

Whenever he'd enter, he'd often bring a new bundle of cloths. Hand-stitched, he'd say. Especially for her. It made her stomach turn, because she knew what awaited her each time. His clammy breathe on her, his filthy fingers grazing her body in discomforting ways. She'd squeal out her protests, but it only seemed to make things worse, as he tried to pin the fabric to her bony body. Sometimes he'd staple the dress in place, whenever she squirmed too much.

He liked to use needles for the job. Robin had never liked needles, and she hated it even less when he jammed them through thin layers of skin. And god-forbid if he wasn't satisfied with the design. Sometimes his frustration had gotten the better of him. He'd whimper, and begin crying like an errant child, mumbling incoherently to himself. The unpredictable mood swings unsettled her. Once, after watching him rocking back and forth for close to an hour, he eventually stood up, towering over her, with his bulking shoulders, and blank expression. He turned menacingly, stomping towards her and tore the garment from her. She screamed, tears pricking her eyes, as she bit down into the gag, pain spiking across her body, ripping off patches of her skin.

She couldn't take it, feeling bile rise in her throat. The punches followed. Swift blows to her chest and abdomen, knocking the air out of her. She couldn't imagine what anyone had done to deserve this treatment. Why? Why was he doing this? Any attempts to reason with him had only led to his sick mind-games. It was as if she was speaking some alien language, powerless to persuade him to stop. Her throat was parched, her blood racing as she tugged at her restraints, trying to reach out and push him off her. He then looked at her in horror. And, like a coward, he'd pack his things up and leave. Of course, not before kissing her goodnight, promising that they'd "play again."

This cycle had repeated itself for what felt like weeks. Sometimes he'd bring empty teacups and other questionable foods, like jelly beans. Hardly enough to sustain her, but sometimes he'd slip some past her lips. Once, she'd bitten him, not stopping 'till she'd hit bone. It had been satisfying to hear him run off, squealing in panic like a hog.

After that, he'd kept his distance for awhile. And as the days passed, it became more and more worrying; why hadn't she been found yet? She could taste residual blood in her mouth. Whether or not it was his or hers, she couldn't say. Regardless, she spat onto the floor, disgusted by the memory of his filthy fingers. She couldn't take this. She knew that if she did nothing, she would eventually die here. There was no one coming to save her. No one knew where she was, or what was going on. For all her parents knew, she was pulling off some elaborate running-away stunt.

That all-consuming fear, the knowledge that she was doomed had dominated every waking moment of hers, 'till her death. Although, she had not given up. She had managed to manoeuvre one of the spare needles that circled her, behind her back and gradually began hacking away at the plastic until eventually, it gave way.

She barely had time to glance at her bloody hands as she scrambled to her feet. Or at least, she tried to, her limbs unsteady. Fortunately, she managed a crawl, slithering across the floor, her ears hyper-aware of the tiniest sounds around her. Overhead she could hear the creak of floorboards, and she tensed. _No, don't stop_! Her vision blurred as a new wave of dizziness washed over her. She was so weak from the weeks of starvation. She tried to shake it off, pressing forward, her swollen belly pressing into the wooden steps as she crept up.

There was a heavy iron door at the top of the steps, flaking with rust. She'd come to dread the awful creak it made everytime he entered. She couldn't tell what room he'd entered by now. She didn't even know how many levels this building had, much less what its' layout was like. Her scalp prickled as she took a deep breathe and reached up, tugging down on the handle with all her strength.

The door suddenly swung inward, and she was knocked off balance, sent tumbling back the stairs. The smile on his face dissipated, as he stood in the doorway. He rushed down the stairs, scooping her up in his arms. At least, he tried to. She thrashed about like a wild beast. With an amazing stroke of luck, she managed to knee him in the face. Fuelled with a burst of adrenalin, she shot up the stairs, heart pumping madly as she glanced around the living room. Across the dining table was an open window, the sunlight streaming in, temporarily blinding her. She'd become so accustomed to the darkness, it was overwhelming.

She regained her balance, steadying herself on the nearby furniture when a hand reached out and clamped around her ankle. She toppled over, smacking her head against the skirting board. She yelped, rearing back her leg, and prepared to kick him away again.

Those few seconds of hesitation had cost her dearly. She'd underestimated her attacker, both in strength and speed. He managed to have her pinned down, the force itself being enough to restrain her. Yet she kept fighting. She would never stop fighting. She writhed, and attempted to buck her hips, as she let out a garbled shriek.

He was torn. He had loved this toy! But it could be so troublesome. Why couldn't it just sit still, like he'd wanted? He remembered a piece of advice his father had given to him once. He liked fixing things. He was very good at it, too. His father had said that the best way to fix a machine, was to give it a good, hard, hit, to reset the thing. He glanced around in panic for something big and sturdy enough for his needs.

His guard was down! She threw all of her strength into a quick punch. Her fingers rung with pain, but she ignored it, as she rolled onto her feet, ready to bolt for the door. But once again, her opponent was quicker, grasping her hair and yanking her backwards. She howled in pain as he raised a large, square object over her head. He cradled her head in his arms, before smashing the object against her skull.

The last thing she heard was the soft lullaby from the music box.

…

The following night, the music box remained unwound. At least, the Marionette was permitted some peace. Unfurling from her foetal position, she noticed the new addition to her sanctuary. For the whole night, she'd been laying on one of the endoskeletons. How did this get here? She tried to recall the events of the previous night, an involuntary shiver running up her spine. _He_ had returned. And already, it seemed he was plotting to strike again. But why?

She shook her head – she would never understand. She caught a glimpse of the endoskeleton's face beneath her. She recoiled in shock. This endoskeleton belonged to the boy, Golden Freddy!

With a thunderous bang, the roof of her box flew off, clashing against the wall, knocking some of the plushes off the nearby shelves. A cloud of dust had been kicked up, and from it, the Marionette rose, with the aid of her strings. She hadn't realized she'd had this much telekinetic strength at her disposal. Perhaps it had been due to her long months of hibernating in that stinking box. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. That swine had mutilated her friend, removed his only method of movement.

Unforgivable.

She rapidly began shifting from room to room, scanning every crevice of the pizzeria that had become their home. The entire place was pitch black, given that it was the dead of night. Feeling her way along the halls, she eventually heard the sounds of crying coming from the fourth party room. The door swung open as she floated towards the source of the sobs.

The Marionette hesitated for a moment. She tilted her head up towards the corner of the room, just above the door. There was a camera, the red light flashing. Someone watching them, perhaps? She focused on the lens, the metal frames of the camera began to shake violently before the lens fractured. In a puff of smoke, the light ceased.

She glided over to Golden Freddy, offering him her hand. His head hung low, unwilling to look at her. It reminded her of when his brothers had bullied him, curled up and defeated. It broke her heart to see that even in death, there was no escape.

She slumped down beside him, her head resting on the back of the wall. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm, willing him to look at her. The problem was, he couldn't. No matter how he tried. He was trapped in this boneless shell, unable to move.

She didn't know what to say. Didn't know what she _could_ say. What could be said that would fix this? She had promised to do that, after all – to put him back together. Because of that brute, she felt as if she had broken that promise. It was hard to feel the wrath that she normally did over crimes like this. She was overwhelmed with guilt and grief. She couldn't help but picture the boy's face, the night he died The hopelessness and dread at having to spend another day in limbo. Both of them had been given new life, it seemed. _But not to be the plaything for a psycho_ , she decided.

She reached over and cupped the boy's face so that his hollow eyes met hers. She could see tiny white pin-pricks, much like her own. He was there. He would hear her.

 _I'm sorry_ , she implored. _I should never have told you about him_ , she added.

His eyes seemed to flicker, and she hoped he wasn't about to leave her. Perhaps this was the final straw for him. She couldn't bare the thought of being alone, forever stalked by a killer, determined to destroy anything – or anyone – that she cherished.

Golden Freddy's mouth hung open. If there was anything he missed about his mortal life, it was the ease of communication. As a spirit, simple actions like speech, and walking were difficult. He marvelled at how the Marionette had mastered the ability to hover and teleport. Then again, it seemed she had been dead for a little longer than him.

He understood why the Marionette loathed that man. Why she was often confined to a box most nights. It didn't diminish the frustration that he felt, though. It burned in him, the depth of his anger and resentment startling him. The only thing that came close was the fear he'd felt when around his brother. And when he'd had his head shoved into Fredbear's jaws.

This was different, though. He could feel the anger coursing through his veins, thick and deadly like a potent venom. Unknowingly, the power in that rage had caused one of the paper plate dolls to slip from the wall. The Marionette glanced over at the fallen décor. She recognized it instantly. It was Fredbear. A crude representation, but unmistakable nonetheless. She reached out, taking the delicate paper plate between her long spider-like fingers.

The Marionette pulled her friend into an embrace, filled with an iron resolve. She knew she couldn't fix him proper. She wished she could, but she was just a kid. How could she save him, when she couldn't save herself? She knew what needed to be done. She was certain. Her murderer would be brought to justice. And both her and Golden Freddy would have their peace. _I don't know how_ , she thought. _But I will make that day the happiest day ever._

 _For you_.


	2. Hooked (Foxy's Story)

**Hooked:**

His patch twitched. Midnight, at last! His mind was racing, as he struggled to move his metal body. It required a lot of focus, patience, and willpower to command the machinery to move. The four of them (Foxy, Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica) had little option but to sit in the back room and practice twiddling their thumbs.

Soon after their deaths, the children that animated each suit had been confined to their individual tomb, growing accustomed to the features of each. Foxy was finding it increasingly difficult to adjust, despite his eagerness to get up and charge the doors of this place.

Firstly, he had a pretty weak grip, due to having a hook for a hand. His eyesight seemed to have suffered damage, his left eye occasionally going blank if he moved his head so much as an inch. He suspected it was due to a few loose wires. His calves were thin, his endoskeleton bare. The smooth metal of his feet made it difficult to stand without slipping. He was the lightest of the animatronics, scrawny and short compared to the others.

Despite this, he kept trying, frustration building when the patch jammed, half open. He knew he was losing his temper. There came a sudden jolt, as static crackled for a brief moment. He continued to push through, concentrating, willing the camera in his mechanical skull to display the live video. Tingles of electricity snapped at his joints, like a bear trap, causing further static before the room flickered into view.

He'd managed to get this far a few times, only for him to falter, or take a wrong step and crash to the floor. It was an unfair game, but he refused to give up. It became all the more annoying when those odd sparks of current would cause him to stall, resulting in failure.

Naturally, the room was dark. He fumbled, trying to search for a switch inside his head to activate night vision. It was certainly a challenge – like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine. His head stuttered for a moment, slowed by rust, as it jerkily turned a few degrees. He spotted a pair of glassy eyes staring back at him, illuminating Chica's horrific face. Big and square, and a beak that held two sets of stubby white teeth.

Chica's head tilted, as if giving him a suggestive look, followed by a gurgling noise, akin to the sound of a backed-up sewage pipe. Perhaps she was trying to say hi? _Show off_. Foxy narrowed his eyes, planning to one-up her.

He tried channelling his spirit into the machine's limbs, snapping the coils and pistons to attention. _This is my body now_! He imagined every little bolt, screw, and cog working in harmony, electricity haphazardly flowing up his spine, across his shoulder, then down his left arm. Despite the stiffness, and the immense weight, he managed to lift the limb, waggling his hook hand in some semblance of a wave. A deep laugh sounded to his right. Foxy tried turning his head at an agonizingly slow pace, whilst his arm jerkily fell back to its' resting position.

He saw another pair of eyes staring back at him. That laugh had been the most human thing he'd heard in a long time. Even in the dim lighting he was able to spot the beige snout and black tophat that belonged to Freddy Fazbear. It occurred to him that the others kids must've had names, too. Although, try as he might, he couldn't remember what they were.

"Hi there! My name's Chica!" She said, her voice-box and lip-sync were in severe need of a tune-up. Chica's head jerked to the side as she tried to shuffle onto her knees. Her arms seemed fixed , perpendicular to her body, her arms ending in tufts of multicoloured strips of plastic. She tried to loosen her head a little further, shaking her giant head back and forth. As she did, there came a sickening crack, her jaw dislocating, making her look like a chilling mix of Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' and a Pez dispenser. At first she didn't seem to notice, before came her deafening shriek.

Within seconds, static filled his vision, followed by a bright white flash and then darkness. However, her gruesome visage continued to haunt his dreams.

…

"Christ, what happened to these things?" Said one of the new technicians. He reached out and jiggled Chica's loose jaw.

"Stop that! These things've got a long journey without you messing them up. And any damages are coming out of your pay-check!"

"How long d'you think it'll take to load 'em up?" Asked the new guy.

The head of security shrugged. "Depends how often you bench press, I reckon."

The new guy snorted. "Yeah, right."

The security guard had been with Fazbear's for years now. He figured loading might've been easier if they could take each of the mascots apart and ship them over to the new location. That is, if they hadn't been running on such a short schedule. The higher ups seemed abit anxious, keen to hit the ground running with their little business venture. He couldn't blame them. Things had been difficult for the previous company, and Fazbear Entertainment seemed determined to prevent the past from repeating itself. He'd heard plenty of rumours going around, and no doubt, so had his colleague.

He'd shrugged it off. Accidents happened when dealing with strange new technologies. He noticed his colleague, Rob grinning to himself. He suspected that Rob couldn't wait to start tinkering with the new stuff.

He'd heard big things were planned with the new ones, but in all honesty, he preferred the original mascots. He stood in front of his favourite. Foxy the pirate. Although, something seemed off this time. Even when switched off, his dark, lifeless eyes seemed to bore into him, staring at him intently, like a tiger studying its' prey. He shivered. _Don't be silly. The quicker you get this done, the quicker you can go_.

…

They had been moved. That much was evident. Foxy's camera managed to catch a glimpse of two men invading the back room, one of them armed with some kind of toolbelt. It had made him panic, especially when one of the men stooped in front of him, grinning. He was a lanky guy with sandy blond hair tied back into a ponytail and hazel eyes that scrutinized him. Foxy wasn't certain whether he wanted to lash out at the man, cling to his collar and beg him to help them, or crumple into his lap and cry his eyes out. But he remained immobile, unable to do anything but stare back at him.

The images had been blurry, though. It was hard to believe if this was what _he_ was seeing, or if it was just a dream. Could he even dream at all? Hours of uneventful silence had passed, until, much to his relief, his eyes managed to open. It was the dead of night again. The lights seemed to flutter in and out, showing him that they had been moved to a completely different location. Firstly, the room was much larger and divided into two sections.

Foxy seemed to be alone, sandwiched in between the wall divider and a workbench. It was darkest in his corner. He lifted his hook arm and with a loud thwack, drove the point into the workbench, hauling himself onto his feet. It took a lot of focus, the metal stiff from disuse. Once he was up, he tugged at his hook. Once he was free, something else had given way and clattered to the floor in front of him. He tilted his head. It looked like some kind of beige plastic shell. Except now, it had a large gash in it from where his hook had impacted. He shrugged it off, recollecting himself as he began to shuffle his feet forward.

He peered 'round the divider. The others were there, too. All slumped against the wall. He wondered if they were inactive. Suddenly, all three of them snapped their heads up, eyes swivelled in his direction. His neck tensed, as static crackled over his vision.

 _Hello_

Said a strained, inhuman voice. Foxy's central processor buzzed and whirred, as he stumbled back against the wall. He could hear Freddy's laugh again, taunting him. Then, he saw what they had been staring at. A tal, frail puppet thing hovered at the door. Its' body was black, the limbs stretched thin, with bands of white stripes, and three big buttons on its' chest. But everything else paled in comparison to the face. A snowy white mask with bulbous red cheeks and dark blue / purple tear tracts pouring from the eyes. The thing had a huge gaping mouth and tiny white dots in the centre of each eye. It was like an uncanny mask.

Foxy could see there was no way this thing had a robot inside it, or strings to support it. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spook them with some elaborate hoax, either. Well... Except for that _guy_. Yet, there was something about this creature that told him that it meant them no harm. Foxy tried opening his mouth to speak, but the words got caught in his throat, burning his insides. Still, his processor was overheating – he felt like a teapot on the stove.

Bonnie managed to tilt his head up, his neck making a hideous cracking sound; "Howdy, y'all! I'm Bonnie the Bunny!" He said, his voice relatively undamaged. Foxy was jealous. _How come these three had no problem talking_? The puppet's creepy fingers fanned over its' mouth as it glided further into their room. It seemed to focus on the upper corner of the room, just above the door. Foxy noticed it was fixated on the security camera. _They were being watched_? He turned his head back to the others, his visuals slowed, with bouts of static blotting things out.

Once his processor caught up with him, he was greeted with the puppet's iridescent face inches from his own, eyes glowing a bright white, as they stared intently. He jerked his head away instantly, terrified of what they had let into their room. Again, there was a brief flash of light, followed by darkness.

However, instead of being trapped in that motionless shell, he instead found himself in a misty grey plane. He quickly discovered that he was no longer in that clunky suit. He felt lighter than he ever had before. He sat up, staring down at his bloody, mangled flesh. There were giant puncture wounds the size of his fist in his body, chunks of his arm and legs missing, streaks of blood everywhere. He could only imagine what his face looked like. Alongside him were the others. There were four of them. One girl and three boys. Neither of them appeared any better looking than him.

In front of them stood two other children. A girl in a flowery dress, with ginger hair and freckles. The other, a short boy with large brown eyes and dark hair in a grey top and cargo pants. They looked like opposites. The boy sat on the ground, fiddling with his fingers, whilst the girl stood tall, hands tucked behind her back. She smiled, revealing rows of missing teeth "Hello" She replied, and he quickly recognized it as that same voice from earlier.

"Are you that, masked person?" Asked one of the kids.

The girl nodded. "Call me the Marionette. And which one are you?"

"Um. My name is Mark." He replied.

"Which suit are you in, Mark?" She asked.

"Oh." He chirped, blushing, although it was hard to tell underneath all the crusted blood on his face. "The rabbit."

The Marionette glanced at the others, her blue eyes watchful.

"Who did this to you?" She asked.

The other girl shrugged. "The man. He did this to us." She replied. As the Marionette opened her mouth, the girl held up her hand, cutting her off. "And I'm inside Freddy."

Foxy looked at the girl. She was short and burly, with tanned features, and bushy blonde hair, tied up in a green bow.

"You sound impatient" Said the third boy. He had light brown hair, big ears, and a sharp jawline.

The Freddy-girl signed. "I'm just..." She balled up her fists, gritted her teeth, and stomped her feet in anger "I hate him!" She roared. "I hate his stupid face! I hate that he tricked us! I hate how much it hurts just to move! And it's all his fault! I hate him! _I hate him_!" Tears burst from her eyes as she frantically gestured about, shrieking about how much she despised the monster that had done this to them. The rest were terrified of her reaction. It wasn't that they didn't share her anger, or that they were too stupid to understand. But rather that they were scared to act – after all, they were only children.

When she was done, she'd collapsed onto the ground, her voice hoarse, and her throat choked with sobs. The others were wary about approaching her. The boy that had spoken previously shuffled towards her, and began rubbing her back. His bright green eyes were fixed on her, straining to hold back tears. He was the shortest of the group, yet he seemed the most confident. Unlike the others, he didn't shrink away when the Marionette drifted over to the crumpled girl.

"You're not alone," said the Marionette, placing her hand on the girl's shoulder. "You have to understand; he's a very sick man."

"I don't care!" Replied the girl. "Look what he's done to us! This was no accident!"

The boy nodded in agreement.

The Marionette's mouth hung open for a brief second, as she considered her words. Her brow furrowed, as some unspeakable memory seemed to have distracted her.

"She's right." Came a voice. They all turned their attention to the little boy in the grey shirt.

"You weren't there, Marion. I saw everything." He continued.

"You what?" Snapped the Freddy-girl, suddenly on her feet. "You were _there_? And you did _nothing_!" She stalked towards the kid, her vision tinged in red. But before she could reach him, there was a blur of movement and the Marionette's striking mask stood inches from the girl's face. She was flung back by an unseen force, the Marionette's eyes flaring briefly. Her companions helped her up.

Foxy was the first to notice that the Marionette and her friend were gone, before the connection was lost, and they were pulled, like a bungee cord, straight back into their metallic tombs.

…

The following weeks had been gruelling. Though their activity was limited, it hadn't stopped the clunky gestures, and foul, gut-wrenching gurgles being exchanged. Though, from his corner, Foxy watched them carefully. Mark – or Bonnie – had been the most quiet, his ears flopping about over his face, and his eyes swivelling around in their sockets. Foxy suspected that something was loose there.

Meanwhile, Chica and Freddy seemed to be having an argument. Chica's voice seemed to be fading to a whisper, for the most part. Then, she'd let out an abrupt squawk that often made Foxy shudder. Surprisingly, Freddy was far less vocal compared to the spirit occupying the suit. His jaws would occasionally snap at Chica, accompanied with bursts of garbled audio. The only undistorted noise Freddy seemed able to make, was his laugh. Foxy was beginning to find that laugh unnerving.

He tried to picture what they were attempting to communicate.

 _What did you do?_

 _What? You wouldn't be angry?_

 _You tried to attack a kid!_

 _I don't care; you're stupid!_

 _You do care. You cared when he did this to us._

 _Shut up! I'm nothing like him!_

 _Prove it, then._

 _Uh, they're both gone? Genius._

 _Because you tried to attack that kid!_

 _Yeah. That kid who stood there and did nothing when we were stuffed!_

 _They could've helped us..._

 _Yeah. Could've. But they didn't!_

Foxy was growing increasingly agitated. They'd been sitting here, in this stinking room, constantly butting heads. Even during the day, the tension had not ebbed, as the two would stare at each other. He thought it was silly. The last thing they needed was in-fighting. But most of all, Foxy wondered why the Marionette had vanished. He suspected she was scared of them. Or more accurately, Freddy.

He shrugged it off. He refused to sit through another night of stupid arguments. Chica and Freddy seemed to be inactive still. He hoisted himself up onto his feet, and on unsteady limbs, hobbled his way out of the parts and services room. His steps were painfully slow, afraid of slipping on any wet patches or other hazards. He'd dig his hook into the wall until he was confident enough to move at his own pace. The further he roamed down the long, dark corridor, the easier it became, the exertion loosening up his rusty joints, and giving him renewed hope. He could adjust to this; and if he could, then the others could, too.

He grimaced. The others. He wished there was a way for him to snap some sense into them. Foxy considered seeking out the Marionette and demanding answers. Why was she here? What did she want from them?

He eventually reached an intersection in the hallway. He glanced to his left and saw a dimly illuminated office. Sat behind a hideously cluttered desk was the same guy from the previous location. Somehow, the man had noticed it too, is eyes widening. Foxy held the man's gaze for a few seconds. He wanted to run down that hall, dig his hook into his shirt and scream at him, 'till he helped them. But what exactly _could_ he do for them? Unless he was able to turn back time...

From the corner of his eye, a flicker of black and white had caught his attention. Foxy managed to turn away from the guard, and instead followed the thing into the shadows. He moved deeper into the restaurant, mapping out the rooms in his head. He began to feel increasingly claustrophobic as he wandered the dark halls. He came to a stop outside one of the party rooms, peering inside. Lining the walls were packing crates as tall as a man, and a mess of papers littered across one of the tables.

He crept over, fixated on the boxes. What on Earth would a pizzeria need that was so huge? Then it clicked. Animatronics? They were being replaced? Foxy's jaw unhinged. What would happen to them? He turned away from the boxes, instead glancing down at the papers. They appeared to be a mish-mash of blueprints, confirming his suspicions. They were being replaced. With _toys_.

Idly, Foxy began to wonder if the technicians had suspected that something was wrong with him and the others. Perhaps they'd discovered the truth. But if that were the case then why had no one gone to the police? Had anyone cared enough to come forward? Had their parents done anything? Something?

He tried to shake it off, disliking the direction his thoughts were taking. It hardly mattered – it was too late for anyone to save them. Foxy turned to leave the room, but as he did, he passed a wall plastered with three paper plate dolls. He paused briefly, his hook gently sweeping over the middle one. A bunny with strange, crooked ears.

Memories darted across his mind, hitting him hard with a wave of nausea. Was it even possible for him to puke? Frustration flared within him, losing what little control he'd mustered. Sparks flew, his circuits bathed in smoke, his entire body convulsing violently. _That. MONSTER_! He hefted his hook, prepared to let it strike when suddenly, it held fast.

Foxy glanced over his shoulder, noting a purple-haze gazing at him. His head twitched, recalling the same purple attire being worn by... Him. The monster on the inside. Foxy managed to rip his hook out of his assailants grasp, before pivoting, hook at the ready, his mouth unhinged ready to let out a battle cry.

He stopped just in time. Bonnie stood a few feet away. His ratty ears hung over his face, almost obscuring his bright pink eyes. Foxy was still shuddering uncontrollably. _C'mon on, you can do this. If the others can do it, then so can you. Just keep it cool_. Bonnie waved at him. Foxy didn't know what to say; how could he break the ice here? _Sorry I nearly hit you, I thought you were our killer_. Even as he thought it, he sounded crazy.

Bonnie closed the gap between them and much to his surprise, locked him into a bear hug. Or would that be a bunny hug? Foxy squirmed, feeling awkward until he realized how much he needed this. His shaking had slowed, his systems stabilising, allowing him to easily regain control of his new body. It was a simple gesture, but it said; _I understand things are tough, but I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere_. It almost undid him.

The two of them filed out of the room, looking for new rooms to explore together, when they were confronted with a ghostly apparition in the middle of the hallway. A large yellow bear suit, slumped over, devoid of any mechanisms. Neither of them could believe what they were seeing. Bonnie's ears hung lower, shielding his eyes. Foxy tilted his head, curious. There was something familiar about this creature.

His vision became distorted the longer he focused on the golden bear. Flashes of terrifying images filled his mind. Visions of Bonnie, Freddy, Foxy and Chica with rows of shark-like teeth, wires protruding, and bloody muzzles, thrusting towards him. When he regained control of his sight, he realized the bear had gone. So had Bonnie!

That bear! He must've taken Bonnie! Panic lanced through Foxy. He felt like he was being watched from all doors, terrified that a tall, purple-attired beast would spring from the shadows and ambush him. He felt helpless, as if he'd become the prey. His feet felt heavy and cumbersome. It felt like he was walking on stilts as he unsteadily limped down the hall.

He barged into Kid's Cove, wherein he could hear a soft lullaby playing in the Prize Corner. Foxy noted the ball pit on the far end of the room, and the numerous play tables, overflowing with colourful blocks and scraps of crayon-covered paper. He kept his eyes on the ground, making doubly sure not to step on any stray Lego blocks.

He could hear the faint sounds of sobbing coming from Kid's Cove. As he ventured further, relief surged through him. Bonnie was there, on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, and burying his head in his fuzzy forearms. His body seemed to shiver as if he were cold. Cold? Impossible. He had no way of feeling changes in temperature, anymore – neither of them did. He must've been scared.

Foxy knelt down beside him, draping his hand over Bonnie's shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but little more than a strangled noise came out. Bonnie glanced up and gave a goofy laugh. Bonnie was lucky; his voice box seemed to be the least damaged.

Something seemed off, though. Then it dawned on them – the music box. It'd stopped. A pair of white eyes appeared from the darkness, floating towards them. Bonnie tensed up, as Foxy straightened up, ready for fight or flight. The Marionette materialised in front of them, gazing at them questioningly, as if to say _I didn't expect to see you here._

The Marionette hung her head, offering them a piece of scrap paper, before heading back into her shadowy domain. Foxy turned the paper over, analysing the image drawn on it. It was a picture of the Marionette and that same golden bear he'd seen earlier. Except the bear appeared much smaller, partially hidden behind her skinny frame. It reminded him of the Marionette's true, human form, and her younger friend... Then it clicked in his head. He understood. So that's why the kid hadn't stopped their killer. It'd been impossible for him.

Once Bonnie was, him and Foxy resumed their exploration. Both of them lingered outside the room with the paper plate dolls. Foxy's eyes narrowed on the rabbit, whereas Bonnie's eyes were drawn to the giant boxes. He was excited to see what was in them.

The thing that held their attention the most was the night guard. Bonnie was the most shy, wanting to remain completely out of sight. Whereas Foxy was unafraid, boldly observing the man, weighing up their options. He wanted to reach out and beg for help from the man but something in his gut told him to resist. It hardly seemed fair – the man seemed to be too preoccupied, busying himself with phone calls. He looked stressed, although, neither of them could imagine why.

Their joints sufficiently loosened, the both of them made their way back to the parts and services room. Foxy began to wonder; how long could this last? How long would they live in fear of being torn apart? Why were they still stuck here? Why had he done this to them? His wires began firing electrical current, snapping and sizzling throughout his body, as that familiar anger descended over him. He crumpled the paper in his iron grip

They needed help. He refused to lay down without a fight. He just hoped that the others felt the same.

…

The manager was not happy with the report from the head security guard.

"They just blinked out? You gotta be shitting me." He barked, stamping his cigarette out. "This place is set to be open any day now, damnit. I want everything to be in working order." The manager added. He ran a hand over his balding scalp. He pinched his brow then continued "Please tell me the toy ones arrived."

"They're fine," the lanky, blond-haired security guard replied, with a reassuring nod. His manager exhaled in relief.

"Finally, some good news."

The kid bit his tongue.

"What is it?" He demanded, sounding more robotic than the animatronics. He must've been at the end of his tether to sound so detached, already.

The young employee steadied his nerves, then continued, "I spoke with our other branch."

"Yes?" He prompted.

"When their pieces arrived, they found that the new ones were missing some crucial parts."

"Well then. I guess it's a good thing we have those piles of scrap sitting in the back, am I right?" His new manager, Victor, was a cocky son-ova-bitch, despite having aged at least a decade since taking up this business venture. He probably thought he was such a _genius_ , here, too, by insisting they cut corners.

The kid could hardly blame him, though – after all, waste not, want not. Having said that, the company had already delved deep into their pockets in order to afford the new models, and sure, many of their features were quite impressive. Such as the built-in security system – despite making his job as a night guard seem redundant. Maybe if Victor had just sold the old models to some rich, nostalgia-hungry madman, he might have been able to afford all of the compatible parts needed for the new _shinier_ models. Although, he suspected that Victor, much like himself, couldn't bare to auction off these childhood mascots to the highest bidder. He could only imagine how it would look to the public – as if they were absolving themselves of responsibility, just to run off with all the money, and invest in some new pet project. Yes, that would definitely ruffle some feathers. Including his own. Not to mention competing with that new burger joint.

Scott wasn't entirely sure that his new boss was an appropriate benefactor for a failing kid's pizzeria, either; with his perchance for booze and strippers. Still, at least the guy was willing to keep him employed. Hell, Scott wouldn't have been shocked if his employment came as an additional perk when Victor and the other investors had bought the business. Fazbear Entertainment – the most magical place on Earth. If you were dumb enough to believe that.

Scott locked up the building, handing the keys over to Victor with a grimace. He shouldn't care – his shift was over. Yet the memory of those piercing silver eyes staring at him down the hall, had been branded into his brain. He was sure which one it had been, too. Foxy. He shivered involuntarily; it was kind've sad, knowing that soon the technicians were going to have at 'em. All those memories, about to be torn apart. He shrugged. _Time to put away childish things_.

…

When Foxy awoke, he was beyond furious. Everything was wrong. Wires gnarled out of their sockets by incompetent hands, patches of metal partially pried away, sparks singing his fur. His energy was scattered, every inch of his body thrown off kilter. Just as it had been before. His head shuddered violently, scraping against the wall, his hook tapping uncontrollably against the wooden bench. Across from him, was that same golden bear, gazing back at him. Foxy narrowed his eyes, filled with a quick burst of life. He sprung up onto his legs. He peered around the dusty room. The others were nowhere to be seen. Had they already been taken?

Terror seized him. Alone? He couldn't be alone. His head snapped towards the golden bear, but he too, had disappeared. Foxy limped towards the door, tearing it open, as if it weighed nothing. He scanned the dark halls, rage and fear swamping him, possessing him, leaving a broiling need to flee. But where could be go? Where could any of them go? All he wanted to do was curl up in his big sister's arms. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be safe. He wanted to leave!

Frustration quickly took hold as he searched the bathrooms. He could hear Freddy's laugh in the distance. But it was so faint. He quickened his pace, his hook scouring the wall, as he struggled to keep his balance. He didn't know what they had done to him, but he was convinced that the only person that could've done this to them was that man. The bad one. The man in purple. Their killer. His killer.

He needed help. The security guard! He had to help him. He was here to protect them from bad people, after all. Foxy charged down the hall as fast as he was able. He peeked his head 'round the corner, mouth agape, as he began to focus his efforts, channelling them into his voice box for the first time. But before he could let leash a single world, a blinding light filled his vision, assaulting his processor. He stumbled away from the source, staggering back down the hall. He felt so dizzy. His body ached, his circuitry buzzing in protest.

Partially blinded from the light, his camera was littered with blots of inky black, merged with bursts of static. He let out a sickening hiss from between his teeth, trying desperately to regain his composure. But all he could focus on was that gut-clenching knowledge; their killer had been here. Why was he still here?

He halted in his tracks. Foxy had made it back to the parts and services room. He was prepared to collapse onto the ground, and never move again. Wanting nothing more but to curl up into a ball. Why? Why them? Why do this? Why? He was beginning to make out blurry shapes, and smears of colour.

He must've sensed movement from behind him. With a small tilt of his head, he saw the burly outline of a purple-tinged figure. Fear spiked inside him, instinct taking over. He had nowhere to run. He was cornered. But he had weight, and he had a weapon built into him. He let out a wretched, blood-curdling howl, pivoting as he swung his hook at the man behind him. His blade lodged deep in the eye socket. _Damnit_! Foxy gripped his victim's head, digging his metallic claws into the thick layers of skin, locking him into place. The shrieks of agony were almost unreal, blending with his own, as Foxy gave an almighty tug, tearing off the face, like taffy on a hook. He giggled, as he gazed in pride at his hook hand. Sweet, delicious vengeance.

When Foxy glanced up at his killer, he was stunned by what he saw. There was no blood, no muscle or sinew, or even a bare skull. Instead, there was a pool of black, staring back at him. But...How could that be? The man... He was just here. Foxy wondered briefly if he'd been permanently blinded, until a pair of white lights flickered on, barely visible, behind a pair of purple bunny ears.

His jaw nearly dropped, as he examined the giant purple face partially skewered onto his hook hand. Bonnie. He'd... He'd attacked Bonnie. He'd attacked _Mark_. He sunk to his knees, his entire being temporarily overwhelmed with guilt. As his mechanical body began to reboot, there was one thought that consumed him:

 _You are a monster_.


	3. Phone Guy's Guide to Not Getting Fired

**Phone Guy's Guide to Not Getting Fired:**

Another long week about to come to a close. Scott downed a fresh can of energy drink, wincing at the burning sweetness. His tongue felt numb, as did the rest of his mouth. His teeth were grinding, but not from the excessive sugar. He was on night shift again. He'd spoken to Victor, requesting to be put on day shift. Scott wasn't comfortable leaving the place unguarded during the day. There used to be a day guard. The higher-ups claimed that he quit. Whilst the clients said he'd left the country. Scott suspected that neither were true.

It was10:40 pm. He hiked up his cargo pants, and shrugged on a pale blue shirt. He noted the dark areas beneath each arm. _Really? I just washed these_. For a scrawny guy, he did seem to sweat an awful lot. He'd probably have to buy a new pair soon. Fazbears really ought to consider getting some air-con sorted. He didn't know how the kids tolerated it, running around the place without passing out. Scott rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He was waiting for the caffeine to kick in; he'd need to be alert for his shift.

There came a buzz from door. He licked his lips, pressed the button, and spoke into the microphone. "Hello? Hello?" He answered.

"It's me," came a voice. His heart sank. _Her_ , again.

"What d'you want?" He mumbled, as he stifled a yawn.

"We need to talk." She replied. Scott covered his mouth, as he considered her request.

A few minutes later, she'd bounded up the stairs and was knocking at his door.

"Scott? Scott, you there?" She sighed and began pacing the corridor. She raised her hand to knock again, when the door clicked open. His chin was wet, with flecks of residual shaving foam dabbed under his chin, and a towel draped over his shoulder.

"Hey," He replied, as she swept into his apartment.

She glanced quickly at his uniform. "You're still working with them." She commented, folding her arms as she stood beside his couch, eyes fixed on him. He expected as much. Scott grabbed the towel and haphazardly dried his chin. He kept his eyes downcast, retreating into his kitchen. "Can I fix you anything? Tea, coffee?" He asked, as he prepared himself a double shot. She stood in the doorway, halting him in his tracks. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Where were you?" She purred, feigning interest.

He shook his head. "You came all this way for small talk, at this hour?" He said, bemused. When he realized her glare was unwavering, he continued "When're you going to realize that I have nothing new to say?" He gazed at her glossy brown eyes, noting the heady smell of her perfume, accented from the rainwater that soaked her cloths.

He sighed, and cranked the thermostat up a few, precious notches. "Y'know, you should really stop coming over like this." He added, brushing past her. "Unless, you plan on paying my bills."

A ghost of a smile skimmed across her lips. "You wish."

Scott blushed, trying to bide his face, as he scratched his neck. "I can't imagine what your fiancée must think..." He mused. _Heh. He'd probably assume you're her boy-toy_. His skin was already beginning to crawl; he knew she was going to bring up _that_ topic, again. He didn't like lying to her. He was never good at lying.

"You didn't answer my question." She prompted.

"I told you before. I was asleep." He replied.

"Then who else? Who was on shift?" She demanded.

He exhaled, groaning as he smothered his face in his hands. "Meg..."

"Don't dodge me. Just answer the question."

"How can I make this clearer?" He pivoted on the spot, locking gazes with her, his eyes burning intensely. "I'm _not_ the manager. I _don't_ make those choices. And even if I did, you really think I'd just break company code of conduct, and gab about my employees like that?" He reigned himself in, regaining his composure. He raked a hand through his thick ratty blond hair. "Maybe you should go."

Megan held his gaze for a few seconds longer. The hurt in her expression was agonizing. "You don't trust me." She replied, matter-of-factly.

"Look, Meg. I told you everything I know. You need to let this go."

"He was my brother, Scott." She whispered, on the verge of tears. She was his complete opposite – it was hard to tell how much of this was genuine sorrow, or simply her trying to squeeze the truth out of him with well-timed jabs at his heartstrings. She was a brilliant liar.

"You're right." He continued. "I don't trust you."

She scrutinized him, hoping that he would reconsider. He had to tell her. He knew she would not let a thing slip by unnoticed. She was tenacious, tactful, and deeply passionate. The only thing she cared about more than her family, was her dream of becoming an investigative journalist.

He wanted to embrace her, tell her he was sorry, and that he honestly, had no clue what had happened to her brother. The mysterious younger sibling that he'd never officially met back in high school. He'd watched as the boy's disappearance had eaten her up inside, and he knew, better than anyone, how much she yearned for the truth. That she could never fully accept his loss until she knew the details, no matter how grisly. It was the fear of the unknown that kept her awake at night, not knowing what had become of him, or if he was even still alive...

"You can't mean that," she replied, voice low.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. But I can't help you."

She tilted her head, flipping her long, silky raven hair over her shoulder. "Can't you?" She said softly, moving to close the space between them. Panic lanced through him as he took a step back. "You should go. I have to go to work." He turned his back on her, hoping she'd take the hint. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't lie about _this_. Not about his feelings. She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head between his shoulder blades.

"Please," she hissed. "Don't go back there." He felt her tears leaking through his shirt. He held his breath, feeling suffocated by her warmth. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve her.

He felt her fingers unbuckling his belt, and he promptly shook her off.

"No," he said. "No, this isn't right." He busied himself, picking up the remains of his energy drink and empty espresso mug. Meanwhile, she stared at him dumbfounded, her spell broken. "I wont ask you again," he said. "Go. Move on. Get married. Sail 'round the world and have three perfect little children." He nodded towards the door. "Goodbye, Megan."

Her lip trembled briefly, tears welling anew as she stood on the threshold. His Adams' apple bobbed, her haunted look telling him that he'd just broken the last shred of hope that either of them had left. But she didn't cry. She didn't even say goodbye. She was gone. He didn't know whether to be crushed or relieved.

He dashed into the bathroom, clutching the sink as he took deep breaths. He slapped himself hard in the face a few times. "C'mon, pull it together." He said, teeth gritted. He glanced up at the grimy mirror, glaring at his reflection. He wanted to punch the idiot that stared back at him. He almost did, but then reconsidered, deciding that his landlord might not appreciate the vandalism, and concluding that showing up to work with bloody knuckles would likely not bode well with Victor.

Scott could not lose this job. Despite its' hardships, there was something that called him back, for each shift. Like an unseen force commanding him to return to the pizzeria, with its' questionable history, and popular mascots. He assumed it was some deep-rooted nostalgia, but he suspected there was something else at work.

He checked the clock. It was coming up to 11:00pm. He splashed his face with icy water, before smoothing his hair back into a ponytail. He took a deep breath, forcing a smile on his face. He shrugged on his leather jacket and strode towards the door. He latched his hand on the door knob, holding the door open with his foot, as he quickly went through his daily list.

Flashlight? _Check_.

Extra batteries? _Check_.

Keys? _Check_.

Deodorant? _..._

He quickly reached over and grabbed his spare cargo pants, dangling them upside down, 'till an aerosol can fell to the floor. He grabbed it, gave himself a quick spray, then slipped it into his pocket. _Check_. He left without a second thought.

…

It didn't take him long to walk there. On his way he'd pass the video store, liquor shops, and a couple of mini marts. He was grateful that the strip clubs and dirty book stores hadn't moved in to this part of town, yet. His neck prickled when he passed the liquor store. For first time since his teens, he was itching for a smoke. It was an unwelcome craving. He checked his watch, deciding he had enough time.

He slipped inside, glancing up at the selection. The cashier was a broad, young guy with neatly combed brown hair. He smiled and nodded. "Welcome, sir. Need help with anything?" He asked. His name-tag read Jeremy.

"Uh, no. I-I'm good thanks." Scott sniffed, managing to tear his gaze away from the packs of cigarettes. He could detect the rich smell of coffee. He shuffled towards it, like a zombie looking for its' next fix. He glanced back and forth between the coffee and the Marlboros.

"Everyone's got something, right?" Jeremy said with a smirk. Scott could detect a hint of nervousness in the kid's voice. He nodded back, as he began preparing his coffee, refusing to make eye contact.

Once he was certain that Jeremy wasn't looking, Scott peered up at the kid. He didn't appear to be some loser, burnout druggie you'd normally find in places like this. Scott raked his brain, trying to recall if he was a face from the suburbs, or some well-to-do kid from his side of town. He capped his drink, digging out a few scrappy dollars.

"Get many customers at this hour?" Scott asked.

The boy flushed. "I guess not. I just started." He snatched up the bills. "You come here often then?" The kid asked.

Scott shook his head, shifting from foot to foot. The boy handed him his change, shrugging.

"Ah well. Enjoy your coffee." He replied with a disarming smile.

It shouldn't have bothered him, as much as it did. Yet, for the rest of his walk, Scott was distracted by the cashier's manners. Not that it was particularly rare, but something about the kid seemed... different. His smile was not forced, his pleasantries genuine. He appeared innocent, but not naïve. Simple, yet smart. Scott remembered, he hadn't even bothered to thank the guy.

He shook it off. He had other things to worry about. He'd been with the pizzeria since Fredbears was around. He grimaced, clutching his steaming coffee. His memories of that place were vague, blurry from weekends of waddling around in a greasy, Fredbear suit. It'd been his first job, and it'd been a difficult time for the company after that... tragedy. He hated using that word. It wasn't so much a tragedy as a murder. He didn't blame them for selling up to Fazbear Entertainment.

He was just relieved to learn that the new company were happy to keep him on as they steadily began to recover from the _tragedy_ at Fredbear's. He presumed it was due to his experience, in addition to his numerous self-defence courses. Being a lean, little shrew, he often found himself getting roughed-up in elementary school. That is, until he took a stand, vowing that high school would be different. He'd worked his fingers to the bone for everything he had, and he was not prepared to lose it all.

He often wondered if there was something wrong with him. Why did he keep coming back to this place? Any normal person would have moved on to better things by this point. Seeing the cashier, so wide-eyed and full of promise, it made him yearn for the days when he too, felt as if he had a future. He could sense he was almost there, the restaurant looming forebodingly ahead of him. Something about the place sent shivers up his spine. Then again, he did work the _night_ shift, these days. Not to mention it was early November. It had to be the cold.

Scott drained the last of his lukewarm coffee. He dumped it in the nearest trash can. He checked his watch. 11:42. Plenty of time to get settled. He took a long, steadying breath. "Time to make some cheddar," he mumbled to himself.

…

Time seemed to simultaneously blur into one long dirge, whilst also being hollow and fleeting. Aside from the occasional glitch from the robots, Scott didn't notice anything particularly strange. They seemed to go about their daily routine. Things had been relatively quiet throughout the year. The higher-ups had expected a bigger bustle around Halloween, but were surprised by the lack of bookings. He remembered how desperately they'd tried to grab the kid's attention. Apple bobbing, bottomless buckets of candy, and all the gaudy Halloween decorations they could sling together at short notice.

He leaned across his desk, flicking the spider-themed deely boppers that sat, clamped around the desk fan's rusty frame. His eyes fluttered briefly, swamped by an unexpected memory. His first Halloween dance, in high school. He was never much of a dancer, as he sat with his mates, awkwardly checking out the single girls, twirling about in tutus. Most of his friends had dates, except for him. And that's where he met her. He'd accidentally nudged her, spilling red punch down her cream-coloured dress. Half-expecting a slap, she instead giggled, then hissed at him between cheap plastic fangs. So cheap, that they easily dropped off, revealing equally-terrifying braces. They talked. They laughed. And miraculously, she'd lured him onto the dance floor, claiming it was her "hypnotic allure"that had persuaded him to join her. At the time, he'd regarded her as more of an angel than a demon.

Scott missed those days. Specifically, he missed seeing her smile like that, so vivacious and care-free. He wanted her to have more of those days. And there was simply, no way she could have that with him. Whenever she looked at him, there was clear contempt. By refusing to give her the juicy details, he was both wounding her ego, and betraying her trust. She was hungry for answers, and he knew there was a good chance that she'd keep digging. Her next target would probably be Victor, although, he wouldn't be surprised if when she wasn't working on him, she'd already started beating down Victor's door, bleating about "the truth" and how "the public deserve to know the facts." He didn't doubt his boss' ability to withstand thorough questioning – he could only imagine what quizzes his Misses had in store for him, whenever he came home plastered.

Scott checked his watch. 6:00am. He removed his Freddy disguise. He always felt calmer having it on-hand, throughout his shift, although why it had become necessary, he couldn't say. Word from the rumour pile said that the old models had been tampered with, others said that Victor had had the technicians install some faulty facial scanners. Scott took it all in stride, assuming it was nothing more than gossip.

Nevertheless, he'd probably feel more comfortable if he had access to a gun. Or a chainsaw. Or a holy-water grenade. Scott opened up a cabinet to his right, and began wheeling out a sack truck. He pushed it down the hallway, where he was greeted with a faceless Bonnie staring fixedly ahead. He remained frozen, like a statue.

The smell wasn't as bad as it was some months ago. When he'd moved them the previous summer, the stench had been eye-watering. It'd been a miracle him and the tech guy hadn't gagged. Surprisingly, the guy had quit within a few days. Scott couldn't say he blamed him; he'd probably be outta here, too, if he had a fancy engineering degree under his belt.

Scott strapped Bonnie firmly in place on the truck and began wheeling him back to the parts and services room. On his way, he passed Freddy, cowering in the girl's bathrooms. _Hmm. That's odd._ He'd have to have a word with Victor about that, see if they could tweak Freddy's path-finding – it probably wouldn't help the business if they had animatronics wandering into the rest-rooms. Then again, none of the old models came out during the day, so it hardly seemed worth it. Scott glanced down at the lock to the parts room. It appeared mangled beyond recognition.

He began to wonder if maybe... could it have been one of _them_? He peered back at the mascots, all of them slumped against the walls. Examining the puncture, it was unlikely. Whatever had busted the lock had been trying to get in, rather than out. Scott ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath, biting down on his tongue. How could he have missed on the cameras? Why hadn't he checked before his shift had started? He turned on his heels, flinching, and nearly slipping as he came face to face with one of the technicians. A man who had been here longer than him.

"Hey, uh. Just cleaning up, y'know." said Scott, brushing passed the man, on his way back to the main security office. The man followed, scuffing his feet on the linoleum.

"You're early." Scott added, as he shrugged out of the bear suit, folding it up and placing it back into the storage cabinet, alongside the sack truck. He slammed it shut. The man flinched. Scott glanced over his shoulder at him.

"Sorry," before chucking the pair of keys over to the guy. "Would you mind opening up?" He continued, whilst rummaging through one of the spare toolboxes. "I need to take a look at something." Scott grabbed a screwdriver, preparing to head to the parts and services room.

"No," said the man.

Scott halted, giving him a questioning look.

"Manager's outside. Says he wants to talk to you." The man added, tossing back the keys with a smirk. "Good luck, Scotty-boy." He said, giggling.

Scott managed a nervous laugh in return. He set the screwdriver down beside the toolbox and quickly swept out of his office. _Shit_. _What does Victor want now_? He hoped that Meg hadn't decided to throw him to the wolves, and start grilling Victor with bizarre questions and outlandish accusations. Her grief was consuming her, and no amount of comfort that he offered was going to stop her. He went by each room, turning on the lights. With each flick of the switch, the pizzeria began to steadily transform into the bright, cheery fun-house for ages five and up. Over the stage, stood a large fold-up advertising board, featuring all the new models. They'd been dubbed the "toy" animatronics, due to their resemblance to the old Fredbear  & Friends action figures.

"Mornin', boss," Scott said, after unlocking the front doors. Victor was chewing on a hangnail, barely registering him.

"'Ey. Listen, I need ya to do me a favour." Victor asked nonchalantly.

"Sure," he replied. _I wonder if he wants you to bury a dead hooker_ , Scott thought snidely.

"As you know, when this place officially opens, we expect to have a surplus of guests," he began.

Scott nodded. Victor huffed to himself.

"We'll likely need a few extra guards for both day and night shifts," he continued.

Scott agreed. "So, you want me on nights?" He asked.

Victor looked unsure of himself; after some hesitation he shook his head. "Not exactly. The higher-ups talked about it, and they want you to train the new guards. As a result, they'll put you on day shift, with most of the trainees."

Scott's eyes widened at him. "Huh." He shifted from foot to foot, as he bundled up the rusty chains that had been strapped across the front doors, and hurried back to his office with Victor in tow.

"What did you say to that?" Scott asked.

"What d'you mean?" Victor snapped. "They wanna promote you. Isn't that a good thing?"

Scott still looked anxious, as he shoved the chains back into the metal cabinet, alongside the sack truck and Freddy costume. "That's not what I asked."

Victor continued. "Look, you wanted to be put on day shift, right?"

"Yes," Scott hissed, frustrated. "That's not my concern, though."

"Concern?" Victor scoffed, trying to contain his laughter.

Scott arched an eyebrow at him, impatient. He was tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a smoke. _I think I'd rather bury fifty dead hookers than do this_ , he thought.

He shook his head, glancing dismally at his desk. He tore the deely boppers off the fan, his hand hovering over the toolbox, when his brow furrowed. Where was the screwdriver? Victor didn't seem to notice. He perched himself atop the desk, cupping his calloused hands.

"It wouldn't be difficult. Training them, I mean."

Scott glared at him, indifferent, as he rummaged through the toolbox, checking to see if his colleague had returned the tool. Victor lunged over, swatting his hand away and slammed the box shut.

Scott snapped to attention.

Victor snorted, leaning his head back against the wall. "If it helps, you can pick out the applicants."

Scott narrowed his eyes, then answered. "That doesn't make me feel any better."

"Too bad. We'll be holding interviews next week."

"Fine," Scott sighed. "Are we done?"

Victor nodded.

"Good," he replied, grabbing the coat he'd draped over the back of his chair. He left without a second glance, dumping the deely boppers as he headed for home.

…

In his haste to get outta there, Scott realized he hadn't fixed the busted lock on the parts and services room. He cursed under his breath, praying that Victor wouldn't chew his ass out for that. Then again, it coulda been a blessing in disguise, should he be fired before next week for such negligence. The bright morning sun was blinding, as he walked back to the liquor store, his tongue dry as sandpaper and his gut growling. He tried to remember when he'd last eaten. He figured he'd had a couple of crappy slices of Fazbear brand pizza. He shivered; he could not imagine anything edible coming out of that kitchen.

He stood outside the store, quickly counting the remaining cash he had on him, when he heard the door swing open. He glanced up, spotting the clerk, Jeremy, no longer in his uniform, watching as he strolled across the road, heading towards the bus station. Scott quirked a brow at him, then quickly disappeared into the shop.

"Marlboros," he asked the punk chick behind the register. Scott was too busy eyeing the road, ready to dart for the bus station. His body was aching, eager to face-plant into his pillow. He threw the cash at the cashier, grabbing his pack. "Keep the change," he added, as he hurried to the bus stop.

"Hey, man. Night shift too, huh?" Jeremy asked.

"Yeah," Scott replied, nervous.

The teen held out a well-manicured hand towards the night guard. "Jeremy," he said.

"Scott," he replied, shaking his hand. He cracked open his box of Marlboros, searching his pockets for a match. He hated being caught short.

"Need a light?" Jeremy asked, holding up a Winston cigarette lighter. He handed it to Scott.

"Thanks," he replied, lighting up. He sucked it down to the filter, billowing out clouds of smoke like an angry dragon. He groaned contentedly, his head swimming with delightful toxins, savouring the brief euphoria. It'd barely made a dent in his stress, but it was a start.

Scott offered his pack to Jeremy who shook his head politely.

"I don't smoke," he added.

"So why the lighter?" Scott asked, bemused.

Jeremy shrugged. "Never know when you might need one," he replied.

Scott chuckled, "Alright, Mary Poppins." He added, before stomping out the glowing stub.

He took a deep breath, burying his hands deep in his pockets. Despite the rising sun, it was still bitter cold. "So," Scott began. "You're new to town?"

"Yeah," Jeremy chirped. "You?"

Scott shook his head. "How old're you, kid?"

Jeremy tensed, eyes fixed on him. "Seventeen. Why?"

"Little late for you to be working, don't you think? I mean... Shouldn't you in bed right now, getting ready for Little League practice?"

"Shut up," Jeremy snapped, but he was smiling. He paused, eyes downcast before he continued. "Don't tell my boss, but I bailed. I have my reasons. I'm just trying to get by, find my own place..."

Scott focused on him intently. Poor kid. He knew it wasn't easy, balancing academics and a temp job. It totally sucked out your free-time. "Where are you living now?" He asked.

"Camp-site. Three miles outta town." Jeremy replied, he met Scott's gaze. "Don't tell anyone I told you that."

Scott held up his palms. "Take it with me to the grave." He replied.

Jeremy visibly relaxed. "Thanks." He said, as a bus rumbled into the station. The kid hoisted up his rucksack, turning to give Scott a quick wave, before boarding the bus.

He seemed nice, a little rough around the edges, but ultimately, a good kid. He reminded Scott of when he was younger. Back then, he'd at least had the support of family and friends. To be cut off from all of that... He knew how it felt. He sighed, idly wondering what would happen if he died. It was a grim thought, yet it had to be considered. Who would take over his role? He shivered to think what those walking buckets of bolts would get up to without him around.

For years, he'd been with this company. There was so many changes going on with Fazbears – Scott wondered how long it would be 'till he shared the same fate as the original guards, before him... _Maybe, you should choose your applicants carefully_ , he decided. He gripped the can of deodorant in his pocket, tightly. _Show 'im the ropes_.

…

Switching from nights to day shifts was never easy. His body didn't like the sudden spikes in light, and dark. Scott was like a bear with a sore head, barely able to keep awake, as he and Victor went through the applications the night before the interviews. Scott had stopped paying attention, tipping his head back, letting his lids drop as he sat in the rusty office chair. He was grateful that the other guard would be working the night shift, 'till they found someone else to fill Scott's place. So far, none of the applicants stood out enough to be given the night shift. He stared down at the inane questions attached to the clipboard. Scott knew what he was looking for: smart, organised, and resourceful. And perhaps, an honest streak wouldn't hurt, either.

Scott was waiting in one of the free party rooms. Things had been pretty quiet that morning. Voices sounded down the hall, as a pair of silhouettes appeared in front of the door. Scott straightened in his seat. Victor had insisted he wear a suit, but with his limited wages, Scott had settled on a simple dress shirt and slacks. Given his haggard expression, he no doubt looked aged before his time. He straightened his cuff links. The same ones he'd worn to Prom with Meg... _Now's not the time to reminisce_ , he told himself. _Focus_!

His face went blank, dumbfounded as the last applicant of the day filed in.

"Mr Fitzgerald, allow me to introduce you to our Head of Security, Mr Cawthon."Said Victor, clearing his throat. Scott managed to snap out of it. He stood up and swept over to Jeremy, holding out his hand.

"Good morning," Scott replied.

"Nice to meet you," Jeremy returned, shaking his hand back. The phone suddenly rang, causing Jeremy to flinch. Victor answered. A few brief exchanges later told him that his boss wanted to have a word with him. Finally, when he hung up, he turned back to the other two.

"Unfortunately I'm needed elsewhere. Scott, would you mind?"

"Not at all, sir." Scott replied, tight-lipped as he eyed the young man. Jeremy had gone all out, pin-stripped suit, and matching tie. Even his shoes were spectacularly polished. It was hard to believe that a guy sleeping rough could be so well groomed.

Once Victor left, and the door clicked shut, there was a heavy silence. The only sound came from the fan. Scott's mouth dried, his shoulders tensed. He cleared his throat and sat down.

"Mr Fizgerald-"

"Look, I understand," Jeremy interrupted. "Y'know, if I'm unqualified."

Pen poised, Scott picked up the clipboard. "I'll be the judge of that." Scott replied, giving him a polite smile. "Please. Take a seat." He added, indicating the chair in front of him. Jeremy did so, doing his best to radiate confidence. It seemed silly, but Scott too, felt nervous. These questions seemed so redundant. Scott knew this kid was better than this – why was he even here? He deserved better than a place like this.

Jeremy sniffed, nearly gagging. "Woah, did the chef bake roadkill and dirty socks or something?" He asked, trying to defuse the tension.

Scott chuckled. "I hadn't noticed." It was true; he had forgotten about the stench. Somehow, he didn't notice it as much during the day as he did when working nights. He presumed that his other senses kicked in when the sun went down. Scott made a note. _Perceptive. Good senses_. "Firstly, what would you say are your best qualities?" He asked.

"I'm very good at planning ahead," he began, giving him a look, as if to say a _s you know_. "In addition to this, I am a fast learner. I find both these traits aids in problem-solving."

Scott nodded, omitting the question: can you show me any examples of this. It seemed redundant. "Your weakest aspect?" He asked.

Jeremy hesitated. "I suppose, I'm not the best communicator. I don't always ask for help when I need it." He paused, smiling. "I like my independence."

Scott grinned back, despite himself. _Right with you, kid_. He was certain that if Meg were here, she'd agree, too.

He swallowed, trying to shake her from his mind. He took a quick swig of his coffee, before indicating towards the mug. "Would you like something? Tea, coffee?"

"Uh, water would be fine." Jeremy replied.

Scott sat up and strolled across the room to the water cooler. He clutched his clipboard to his chest, trying to regain his composure. Was he really thinking of hiring this poor sap? He was just a kid... Scott glanced over his shoulder at the boy. He was certainly organized, perhaps more so than Scott himself. Even now, he was glancing curiously around the room, like a wee bird. Scott arched an eyebrow, as he pulled out a plastic cup, and pressed the tab on the water cooler. Jeremy swivelled in his seat, at the tiniest sound of the water trickling.

"Off the record," Scott began. "Why are you a runaway teen?"

Jeremy's eyes widened. "I-This wont affect my chances, will it?"

Scott stiffly shook his head, handing Jeremy the cup, filled to the brim. "Not at all." He lied.

Jeremy downed the drink in a single gulp. _Wow, kid must've been parched_. Scott returned to his seat. Jeremy set the empty cup on the edge of the table, beside the coffee mug.

"Well," he began, shakily. "There's nothing much to tell. I needed my own place, parents' house was getting crowded. They didn't need me taking up space, so I left." He finished, cupping his hands.

"They didn't send someone to find you?" He asked.

Jeremy shook his head. Scott paused.

"And what about your school? It didn't occur to you to finish your studies?"

"No," Jeremy said, uncertain. "I was mostly done with my courses. And besides, at the end of the day, it's experience that counts, right?"

Scott smiled and gave a curt nod. _You have no idea_.

By this point, Jeremy no longer looked as confident as he did when he'd walked in. He remedied this, by squaring his shoulders, and clearing his throat.

"Let's wrap this up then." Scott declared. "Are you willing to work nights?"

Jeremy smiled, suppressing the urge to laugh. "Yes, sir."

"Good. You start tonight."

"Wait, what?" Jeremy guffawed. "Really?"

"Positive." He affirmed, getting up to leave.

His throat clenched, his lips twitched. He wanted to bail from the room. He couldn't look at this kid in the eye. Not after he'd just lied to his face. _What am I doing? You know this kid deserves to know. About the tragedy_... As they reached the door, Jeremy grasped his hand, beaming at him. "Thank you, Scott." He replied. "I mean... I owe you for this."

Scott returned the smile, his a little forced. He sighed. "Kid, I'm just doing my job," he glanced around, making sure Victor wasn't around the corner. He dropped his voice to a whisper, before continuing. "Listen, you didn't hear this from me, but chances are, you just made a really poor career choice."

Jeremy appeared unfazed. _Good_. He'd need that backbone if he was going to survive five nights.


	4. Mangle's Madness

**Author's Note: Hey, sorry for not updating. Am still trying to figure out how to make these next couple of stories work. This one is not complete (as you can tell) and will likely be scrapped, because I wanna have each story work into a fairly consistent narrative. And to do that, I'm gunna have to go over the theories and revise the timeline 'till am happy with it. As you can guess, that means some stories will have to be tweaked. This one in particular, as I'm finding it a lil challenging implementing the toy animatronics into the story. Which makes writing Mangle's POV a lil difficult. But, we'll get there. Also, the list of shorts to come are as follows: Mangle's Madness, Yellow Fever, Chica's Quest, The Bear & The Honeypot, and Fredbear's Party. I may add some short extras and crossovers with SPN, an' such. As I said, for now, am focusing on making sure that the narrative fits. I may also go back and edit the others - just beef them up abit, and help flesh out the characters some more. I felt like I rushed them, especially Hooked.**

 **P.S I'm open to feedback. Any ideas you have on the characters would also be appreciated, given that this story is character focused.  
**

 **Mangle's Madness:**

It was like floating. If not for the fact that her wires clung to the metal piping that ran overhead, as she hauled her body across the ceiling. _Like Spiderman_ , came a high-pitched voice, crackling over the radio. Her head twitched, as the second head began scanning the room. Fear bubbled up inside her, broiling, spilling over like a mass of maggots from a decrepit corpse. _Is that a... a finger_? Came another, more muffled voice.

Her body shuddered involuntarily, clinging tightly to the ceiling. The floor was vile; the floor was toxic. The happy sunshine 'n rainbow crayon doodles were tainted with blood splatter, that much she could tell. At least, according to her Lil Buddy - it was never wrong. _Don't touch it_! Cried Lil Buddy. _Don't do anything silly_!

 _But what if someone trips over it_? Asked a girl's voice.

 _It's lost_... Came a second, sulkier voice.

 _We need to find its' owner_! Shrieked a third voice.

 _No_! Yelled Lil Buddy. _Hide! Before he sees us_.

 _Who_? Replied the other three.

A shadow darted across the doorway. Mangle flinched, rattling one of her loose eyeballs around its' socket. She could feel it teetering on the edge of her mask. She clammed up, hoping the shadow hadn't noticed. None of them liked the dark. She could feel their voices, rumbling inside her.

 _What d'you think it was_?

 _Maybe it was a dog_.

 _Stupid! Why would there be a dog inside a pizza place_?

 _Don't call me stupid_!

 _What if it was t-the Boogeyman_?

This sent the voices tumbling, down-down-down, snowballing into a cacophony of squeals of terror, and panicked whispers. Mangle's grip loosened, as the voices consumed her mind, a rabble of unintelligible words, laced with radio feedback. They gnawed at her head-space, like a pack of rabid dogs. Her jaw unhinged, trying to shake them off. Lil Buddy tried to shush them.

 _Buzz-buzz-buzz_. They were a hive of infant souls. All running from the monster that was roaming these halls. As the footsteps faded, Lil Buddy finally spoke; _follow him_.

 _Why_? Asked the confused bees.

 _The show room. Hurry_! Lil Buddy urged.

Mangle's head shook violently, bursts of static, and angry howls voicing their protests. Yet her body began to move, crawling across the ceiling, like a sloth. Lil Buddy snapped its' jaws, eagerly as the Mangle slithered along the ceiling like a caterpillar. Once she was in the main show room, her radio muted, the silence a welcome reprieve.

Meanwhile, it was Lil Buddy who'd cut her off, siphoning her meager power into his camera, activating his night vision. His eyes acted like binoculars, allowing him to zoom in on some disturbing anomalies. A haphazard attempt to wipe a smear of blood beside the Balloon Boy. A pair of silvery eyes that stood out against the inky blackness.A toothy grin that awakened an all-consuming revulsion. Seeped into every fibre of her being, right down to her core was a need so potent it erased all other sense – _end the bad man_.

It pulsed inside her, like blood, the message beating at her ribcage, growing louder and louder. _Save them_! Save who? Lil Buddy relinquished his control of her battery, urging her to move, to act. _Get him! Before he gets away_! But the voices churning inside her were paralysed with fear, as she began to loosen her grip on the light fixture.

The bright eyes and unnerving grin were gone, followed by the click of the main door. He'd escaped. _Damnit_! Lil Buddy cursed. The voices returned full-force, babbling away, as if Lil Buddy was incapable of hearing them. He seemed to have gone quiet now, content to mull over the brief loss, alone. It felt like he'd been snipped from her body.

As Mangle slithered down the corridor, she spotted a purple tinged figure. The voices became shrill and incoherent, especially when they saw its' black empty face. Like a giant toothless grin. Mangle shrunk away, shuddering uncontrollably like a boiling kettle. She imagined steam erupting from her back, as her mouth unhinged. She tried to press the plastic together, trying to whistle, like a steam engine. One of the voices, a girl spoke;

 _my dad used whistle whenever our dog ran off... He tried to teach me_.

Mangle's head was filled with the sounds of sputtering, and maniacal cackling. Her head began to swing on her gangly neck, like a bizarre giraffe mating dance.

 _My dad took me to the zoo once._ Replied a boy's voice. _We saw giraffe's smacking their necks against each other. It looked funny_! He added, giggling.

Her jerky movements did not go unnoticed. Peering out of the Parts and Services Room was a pair of yellow eyes, just like hers. Her head quirked, eyeing the torn-up face questioningly. _Another fox_? Asked one of the voices.

 _It's Scary Fox_! Lisped one of the girls.

 _Look, he has an eyepatch_!

 _Is he a pirate fox_?

 _Cool_!

Scary Fox. Was she Scary? She eyed her twisted digits, the coils of metal and wiring, writhing like a sea of upset beetles. _Ew, not bugs_! Shrieked one of the voices. She'd counted five voices in total, but like an army of insects, it sometimes became difficult to identify each and every one. Whenever they began nattering away like this, long into the night, she often found their voices quickly became indecipherable, amidst the spouts of radio.

It was possible there were others. Like Lil Buddy. He wasn't like them; they listened to him, it seemed. She wasn't even certain if he could hear them, yet whenever he did speak, it was oddly reassuring. The voices seemed to agree on one thing: he was their guardian angel. He looked after them. He cared for them...

Passing the open door to the girls' bathroom, Mangle caught a horrifying glimpse of itself. A hulking mass of glinting metal, that looked as if it had been chewed up and spat out. Her wires were knotted, like a mauled bundle of yarn. Already, she could see flecks of fingerprints on her plastic coating, even the odd drop of smudged finger paint. She hoped it wouldn't cause her to rust up, over time. Honestly, what moron thought it'd be smart to give children in a fast food place ready access to paint; of all things!

Her radio began to spark to life, as the hulking mass of the purple figure began to approach. On closer inspection, she saw a pair of tiny red lights gaze at her, like lasers. The wretched machine passed by her, its' body clearly off balance. She presumed that was due to its' missing arm, and lack of a face. _Is that Bonnie_? Asked one of the voices. It was followed by shrills screams about how he had _no face_!

The part that scared them the most was the eyes. So unnatural, staring, judging. It made them especially uncomfortable when paired with the purple coloration. The voices began to rumble to themselves, pierced with mewling sobs. Memories flashed amongst them, like a gory slide-show.

A faulty electric wire, that stung like a jellyfish. A screwdriver buried in a skull, like a unicorn's horn. A bloody that stained the floors of Kid's Cove, and glistened like rubies in the dim lighting. Among the tiny corpses stood a single man, twitching. He held up his trusty tool, the tarnished metal of his crank bent out of shape from years of use. The man licked his lips, holding the bloody weapon up to his lips. He planted a kiss upon the tip.

Their bodies lay together, curled up in the pool of blood. It was still warm. One of them was still clinging to life. He couldn't move; he was paralysed with fear, too scared to even breath. His mouth open, frozen in a silent scream. He had one eye open, as his choking subsided, his oxygen-starved brain caused his vision to blur. In his final moments, he couldn't help but imagine him and the others were like clams in a pot of boiling water, dying slow, their bodies split open, and spilling out onto the floor. His last thought – a steaming bowl of his mother's clam chowder. _Momma_...

The only remnants of the murders were locked away. Lil Buddy knew where. He could sense it. Mangle didn't now how, but he seemed so much wiser than the rest of them. The voices grumbled to themselves, grinding like rush hour traffic. Her mind became a haze as she continued to slither across the ceiling. A piercing light flashed, momentarily disorienting her. _It would seem we have a newcomer_ , said Lil Buddy.

…

Victor stood on the opposite side of the street, illuminated under the glow of a crooked lampost. He stared at the brand new logo, the fresh paint work, and double-glazed windows. His stomach was unsettled, tying itself up in knots. Why had they opened so soon... Just because the sister location was ready, it didn't mean this place was – Fazbears was larger and currently facing more scrutiny from the public. It was unnerving, having so many people to satisfy. They could try to cover it up as much as they liked, but the fact was unavoidable: Fazbear's was dying.

Maybe this place once had been a kid-friendly wonderland, bursting with joy and child-like want. The community were content to cling to the ideal, the _memory_ of Fredbears. It was as if they were just as eager to believe in the fantasy as the children were.

That was what he'd been led to believe. The phone call he'd received during Fitzgerald's interview had been... interesting to say the least. A woman had boldly claimed she knew about his visits to the local strip joint, Technically Legal. It had unnerved him, but not quite as much as her reference to the murders. She'd rattled off a list of names, each one haunting him. Amanda Fredricks. Oliver Williams. Mark Plier. Tom Jackson. Shivers ran across his skin at the names. He'd seen them as words before, printed on local news articles, but to hear them, spoken by this stranger made them seem all the more real.

He had never known these children, although he, like the rest of the town could speculate on their fate. There had never been a formal investigation, it seemed – the police believed that if they had been killed, then their murderer's trail had long gone cold. It had only been a few months since their disappearance. This was a small town, and as such, many of the neighbors were familiar with one another. Even so, finding any links between the victims had been tenuous – aside from sharing the same school, the only thing they shared is their love of pizza and, more specifically, Fazbears.

It was an unpleasant connection one that had caused the restaurant to close, under investigation. Once they'd found nothing in either location, the company eagerly re-opened. And to save face, they'd been urged to include special high-tech security systems in their new animatronics. Victor grimaced. He remembered having to rehearse for the day-time commercials that aired shortly after the announcement. His wife had diligently taped it for his viewing pleasure. _Fazbear Entertainment proudly welcomes you to the Grand Re-Opening! We've got pizza! We've got arcades! Ball pits, balloons, finger-painting, and much much more! Come join us at the brand new, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, where fantasy and fun come to life_!

Oh yes. He remembered having that line drummed into him. He'd been forced to write that drivel. Management had hand-picked the most photogenic of staff members to star in that commercial, but nothing could compare to the fully-functional animatronics. Those were the main draw, after all. The kids had always loved the old mascots, but these ones ought to bring in some nostalgia for the older kids. After all, they were built to resemble the old toys from the kid's show. Paying for the rights to use their image must've cost more than the robots themselves.

He did like their design, his favourite being toy Chica with her signature cupcake and sleek curves. He remembered watching the CEO stand beside the animatronics, as if he were introducing you to an old friend. Victor couldn't help but note his forced smile, the gleam of deception in his eye. He'd played poker with the guy a few times. He knew that look well – it was all for show.

That had not been what concerned him, though. It had been the way that Toy Bonnie had stared back at him. He assumed it was just something off in the robot's programming. Yet he couldn't shake the uncanny valley feeling, as if these things were thinking, feeling, and hiding. It seemed to know that the CEO's words were even more hollow than his exoskeleton, as it replied in its' goofy voice, "Howdy, kids! You wanna play?"

The memory left a chill in its' wake, as he stood, waiting to meet with the woman. They'd agreed to meet by 3am. Fizgerald would be in the middle of his shift; he'd be perfectly distracted. Victor began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, scratching at the sweaty red rash developing beneath his watch. His fingers were numb from the cold. He tried to take his mind off of it by focusing on the silky smoothness of the stripper's bare body, trying to imagine the warmth of her skin

"Good evening, sir." Cooed a soft surly voice from the shadows.

Victor flinched. "Huh? What're you doing he-" Before he knew what was happening, a twisted metal crank smacked into the side of his head. He staggered, crumpling to his knees. His skull rang in protest, the world around him blurred dizzily. He clutched his temple, trying to steady himself against the nearest brick wall. He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to speak, but could manage nothing more than a mumbled groan.

He tried to look up, but the light from the lampost was blinding. Despite this, he was able to note the weathered face, bright eyes and toothy grin of one of his employees. He knew the face, just as well as he knew any of the robots. But trying to remember the name was much trickier. His uniform suggested that he was a technician, but without a name badge, he had no cheat-sheet to help trigger his memory. The face that stared down at him was twisted – no longer did he appear wimpy and soft-spoken. The eyes were alert, his lips pulled into a large, sickening grin.

The man let out an impish laugh, his calloused fingers curling around his weapon of choice.

"Don't worry, sir." He began. "I'll fix them all." Then, with the swiftness of a fox, he struck Victor again, harder this time, knocking him out cold.


End file.
